


Too much. Too real.

by peanootzramano



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: Angst, Death, Gun Violence, Heavy Angst, M/M, Mentions of Death, Underage Drinking, Violence, expensive headphones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-21
Updated: 2018-08-21
Packaged: 2019-06-30 16:17:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15755322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peanootzramano/pseuds/peanootzramano
Summary: "For a fleeting moment the crowd wrangled by Rich seems to fall victim to a petrified paralysis. Mouths popping open and eyes corrupted by tears which dare not fall on dewy cheeks. Just enough time for bags to clatter unceremoniously against the floor."





	Too much. Too real.

**Author's Note:**

> In which one Friday goes horribly, disgustingly wrong.
> 
> Happy Birthday to my beautiful girlfriend [vanceypants](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanceypants)! I hope you enjoy this dark little ficlet. Hopefully it appeals to our shared tastes of the gruesome!

The hallways of Middle Borough High are wonderfully miniscule; a mapwork of lacquered linoleum and turquoise steel where lockers line the corridors. Each wall is a canvas of brilliant artwork, posters depicting the meeting of whatever clubs happen to be active that month, and graffiti too captivating (and persistent) to be scrubbed clean by the custodian.

It’s the end of yet another uneventful week and those petite pathways are flooded by an onslaught of lazy bodies trudging from their classrooms and straight out the door. Some faces are wilted by exhaustion, creased eyes and mumbling lips vocalizing an abundance of fallen z’s. Some are leaping back and forth on buoyant toes, their eyes _alive_ with the thought of succulent Chinese food and the limitless entertainment Netflix has to offer. Others linger around their lockers while anticipating the arrival of their relatives to help cart them home or perhaps stuffing their bookbags full of convoluted assignments and incomplete projects. It’s a peaceful atmosphere full of idle chatter and hope for the weekend.

That is, of course, before a cacophony of thunderous footsteps rip through the air; steel-toed boots rattling with utmost urgency.

Clutching desperately at the elevation of his panting chest, and tripping through a maze of hallways he cannot quite fathom through the stained glass of his tears, Rich can only gasp a garbled message of absolute _terror_. He presents himself before a crowd of heretics – their puzzled eyes flashing with idle curiosity – as he fumbles over his vowels and consonants.

“Please-!” He gasps, his knuckles leaving scarlet welts against a restless torso. “Please – RUN!”

Vicious mouths spit careless ridicule at the sound of Rich’s paranoid lisp. His words are slippery and soft and unheard of in such a dialect - one which conflicts with the infallible nature of his social profile. And those who are not exchanging infantile giggles beneath well-placed fingertips are simply grinning in anticipation of the punch line. In the distance, through the fog infiltrating Rich’s delirious vision, he can just barely make out the outline of Michael Mell captivated by concern. Simply watching as Rich trips through a brave proclamation of _danger_.

“I’m fucking serious!” Rich tries again – all hands and tongue and ultimate dismay. “Get OUT! He’s got a-“

**B A N G!**

The distant sound of angled lead _erupting_ from within the wide barrel of a shotgun halts any warning Rich could have possibly given; chased gruesomely by a _squelch_ of torn tissue and bones fracturing from impact alone. There is a temporary hesitation as breaths are caught. And then the entire world seems to collapse amidst a horrific harmony of anguished screams. Cuticles raking across stationary chalkboards.

Too much too much too r e a l.

For a fleeting moment the crowd wrangled by Rich seems to fall victim to a petrified paralysis. Mouths popping open and eyes corrupted by tears which dare not fall on dewy cheeks. Just enough time for bags to clatter unceremoniously against the floor. And then there’s so much _motion_ that Rich cannot keep his eyes from looping over one and other – a stampede of scared students skidding toward any feasible exit within arm’s reach.  Limitless limbs seem to press helplessly against grotty glass – a protrusion of panic which twists ankles and corrupts hands. They would tear each other apart, whittle down to marrow and misery, if it will grant them sanctuary.

Except for Michael. Wide-eyed, open-mouthed Michael. Somehow far more content with searching the vacated corridors than buying himself a chance at freedom.

Rich approaches him with a sense of caution, positioned forward on the point of his toes, his fingertips wrapping around his wrist in an embrace far more affectionate than Michael had ever experienced from the other.

“Michael? Michael, we need to GO!”

“I can’t!” Michael wheezes, his lungs saturated full of tar. “I can’t… I can’t leave Jeremy.”

**B A N G!**

Michael _whimpers_ , strangled syllables caught up in the humidity of a taut throat. The tears which fall from crooked lashes are disgustingly sharp, swollen, staining cinnamon cheeks which were once so full and bright. He is collapsing in on himself in ways Rich could never have fathomed; no longer bulletproof beneath a guise of self-love and claimed quirkiness.

“Michael, _please_ -“

**B A N G!!**

This shot rings closer, now. It rips through the spine of Chloe Collins and into the stomach of Dylan Fuentes where they had wrestled toward the exit. Pale flesh bursting open from such an impact, strands of mass and muscle left gaping as they slump to the floor. Dead. Lifeless. Gone.

Michael can barely _breathe_ through the thistles lodged in his throat – screaming so _loud_ that such a noise is sure to carry; to _alert_.

Rich pulls on the curl of Michael’s wrist, wrenching him into the nearest classroom without hesitation nor forethought. They trip through abandoned desks and damp pottery before throwing themselves into the asylum of the supply closet. Michael’s lips become trapped underneath the solidity of Rich’s damp palm, a temporary compress desperate to filter those strangled little whimpers which threaten to pop free.

Michael grabs at Rich’s shoulders, blunt nails leaving crimson peaks over angled muscle as he squirms and writhes through his panic. His eyes, so horrifyingly wide, threaten to volley right from their sockets.

“Michael. Michael, shh.” Rich begs, his lips tracing fragile patterns against his scalp. “Listen to me, please. Shh.”

**B A N G!**

**B A N G!**

**B A N G!!**

Tearing his mouth away, Michael can only choke through his vocabulary. “W-What’re we g-gonna do?”

“Wait. That’s all we can do. We wait and he’ll… he’ll get bored. He’ll get bored and we’ll be outta here. We just have to wait.”

Rich has never possessed particularly long arms. And yet, smothered amidst naked canvases and forgotten palettes, he finds his bicep to be a perfect fit around Michael’s trembling shoulders. His nose buries amidst tight onyx ringlets as scents of honey and coconut flood his lungs; the flavour heightened by the motion of Michael rocking back and forth – his knees caught up underneath a round chin.

“People are d-dead,” A pause for breath, sobs rattling on chapped lips. “What i-if Jeremy is – I-I should be out there! I need t-to look for him!”

Any motion to move is quickly thwarted by the insistency of Rich’s touch, his fingertips stable and firm beneath a quaking mandible.

“Are you crazy? You can’t go out there. He’ll fucking kill you! Heere is fine.”

“How do you know?” A shake of the head. “You don’t know anything. How d-do I know you’re not gonna just… feed me to that _freak_ out there for the joke of it?”

Rich pauses, waiting for the shrapnel to settle from within his sternum. Acute shards puncture through malleable mesh as the severity of their fractured relationship comes to light. Certainly, Rich was never particularly _pleasant_ to Michael. He had contorted his body inside too many lockers to adequately tally. He had spit acid into his face in the form of unjust nicknames and petty observations. He had coiled his fingertips through those proverbial pigtails and wrenched with all his might.

But he had never expected Michael to view him quite so callously.

“You… You think I’d really do that?”

Michael scoffs, “After everything you’ve done to me? Of fucking course you would!”

“Shh! Shh, okay,” His arm returns to the back of Michael’s neck, another hand falling to rest on the slope of his knee. “I wouldn’t do that. I know you don’t believe me, but… Look, Michael, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, okay?”

Michael’s sobs are so brittle that Rich very nearly mirrors such intensity.

“You don’t need to forgive me or anything. But you do need to trust me. I saw Jeremy today. He was in the nurse’s office. I went in to get a band-aid,” He holds his finger upright, a film of gaudy pink material wrapped around the tip. “He looked really gross. Probably got sent home.”

“Yeah, well, he didn’t say anything to me.”

“He was really sick, dude. He’ll probably call you tonight or whatever gay shit it is that you two do.”

Michael hangs his head low, seemingly unconvinced, but he allows himself to nod once.

Rich slides his fingertips between the heat of Michael’s own – a class of dark on light, thick on thin, rough on beautifully smooth – and _squeezes_ ever so gently. Tries to will what (devastatingly low) quantities of hope he has maintained into Michael’s aching heart.

“It’s gonna be okay, Michael.”

Michael’s head falls wordlessly to Rich’s shoulder. Solidifying their bodies together despite a rather laughable height difference. A spare palm massages elongated circles against the small of Michael’s curved spine. The silence is entirely palpable – punctured only by a distant disruption of bullets and _carnage_.

Holding on to Rich’s hand for dear fucking life, Michael cannot help but to blurt out all the toxicity lingering within a temporarily unstable mind.

“What kinda trailer-trash _freak_ does this shit? Who the fuck shoots up a small school in the middle of Jersey?”

Rich’s features contort toward the centre of his face. His brows burrow together, warped line knitted by the tension which bleeds from throbbing temples. His lips squirm into a pinched spiral of immobile contemplation. To have Michael like this, _protected_ by the very arms which would once shove and crush and humiliate, is something Rich had only ever been able to fantasize about. And now, to lose it all by way of a simple confession.

May as well go out with a bang. Gruesome pun entirely intended.

“My brother.”

Michael turns his head to look at Rich, a flare of dust caught in his vision.

“I mean – that’s not some joke or anything. It’s literally my brother doing this. And I mean, it’s my fault. I gave him lip this morning. So, this is basically all my fault.”

Rich laughs cruelly at himself. Just once. Douses himself in the flames of internal destruction and allows his insides to scorch and sizzle before the note dissolves into _anguish_.

How can Michael embrace someone so disgustingly _foul_? A poor excuse for man who has single-handedly tore down a school which once welcomed him so earnestly. Letting lives fall like sand between the junctures of his fingertips – inconsequential – a mere afterthought for a mind focused solely on clever quips and hilarious anecdotes.

“Hey. Rich, come on. It’s not your fault,” Michael’s lips are soft but his words are softer, each pressed in against a cheek now dripping in sorrow. “You give me lip all the time and I haven’t gone all Columbine on anyone.”

Rich can’t help himself. The joke is so wonderfully _dark_ that he cannot help but to chuckle at the absurdity of it all. He pulls his arms around the security of Michael’s rotund midsection, his temple falling to rest against a heartbeat which rumbles so _beautifully_. So full of life and promise.

He simply can’t _bear_ to think of such colour and vibrancy being snuffed into oblivion.

They cling to one and other for longer than they dare to assign to time nor commitment. A collision of hands brushing over every sliver of exposed flesh each other can find. A need for _companionship_ in a most hopeless time.

Out of the corner of his waterlogged eyes, Michael can just barely manage to spot a significant flash of crystalline glass hidden amidst large glue bottles and stained brushes.

“Hey, look,” The fingertips which are not spun amidst textured knuckles and caramel skin grab at the throat of a dusty bottle. The whiskey trapped inside sloshes darkly with a bittersweet nectar almost too smoky and dark for their inexperienced lips. “Looks like good ol’ Mr. Walsh uses more than just inspiration to get through the day. And…”

The cap p o p s open with minimum effort, rolling across the floor into some distant corner.

“I mean. Seeing as we’re probably going to die anyway.”

Michael does not handle alcohol particularly well; his tastes adapted only for strong marijuana and the occasional fluffy white line. His limit becomes especially diluted when such libations have more years on it than himself. The liquor feels burns like _acid_ as it sloshes down his throat – predatory and sinful – an oak finish which causes his toes to curl in on themselves. His lips smack as though he has swallowed a mouthful of chlorine and just as sharp.

Rich doesn’t struggle nearly as much, taking two large glugs without pausing for an appropriate breath. The corners of his eyes fizzle and spark from the saccharine toxicity of it all. And his lips tingle as though they had stumbled across a beautiful and divine secret ready to be pressed into honeyed throats.

He glides his tongue across the shape of his mouth. Settles himself. Tangles his fingertips into the damp hair at the back of Michael’s neck and pulls him close.

Their lips brush over one and other with a sense of absolute _urgency_. Cinnamon whiskey and mahogany breaths intertwine in a moment of crazed madness. Rich eases Michael’s mouth open underneath the slip of a syrupy tongue – signing his name on lips which were absolutely never his to claim.

It takes longer for Michael to break away than Rich had expected.

“Wait… what’re you…?”

“Well,” Rich gasps, his very oxygen flavoured by the richness of Michael’s tongue. “Seeing as we’re probably going to die anyway?”

He brushes their lips together more prominently, his teeth leaving dark petals on rosewater flesh.

“I’ve always thought you were, y’know, kinda gorgeous. And I know I’ve been a total spaz about showing you that. Fuckin’ cliché, right? Shoving you around and bullying you just to get near you. I just…”

Rich presses his thumb around the swell of Michael’s cheeks; heat radiating from him from the seduction alone. After all, there’s very little room in this closet to breathe let alone think beyond internal desire.

“I don’t wanna die without letting you know how I feel.”

His thumb circles the crimson succulence of plump lips. “Don’t wanna die without tasting you.”

His fingertips brush down the forefront of Michael’s chest, following the incline of a tight denim seam as it distends on a swollen thigh. “Without touching you.”

Michael can’t help but to _gasp_. After interconnected months of perpetual ridicule he has a very real chance of being intimate with Rich Goranski. He may also find himself riddled with vast, gaping bulletholes by the end of the night.

Some things can’t wait.

So they kiss. Warm, wet lips beautifully entangled.  Teeth clinging to sensitive flesh susceptible to such unruly desires. Bodies rubbing against one and other, thighs amalgamated together, a collision of heat on heat which feels far too promiscuous to deny. Rich rubs his hands across the length of Michael’s spine where he hovers high above, falling to a rest on the slope of his shapely ass.

There are small, dark little droplets falling onto Rich’s cheeks from above. Tinted by the sorrow which has plagued their hearts throughout this horrific little evening.

They are so lost in the pressure of rupturing hearts that they almost miss the sound of footsteps shuffling toward the closet. Their lips part instantaneously – a strand of silver connecting their lewdness before it is swiftly severed. The jiggling of the doorknob is harder to ignore.

Icicles dissolve within tangled veins.

Rich runs his fingertips through the aeration of Michael’s hair. Smiling pathetically. “I’ll see you around?”

Michael cannot bare to speak beyond an urgent nod.

All they can do is w a i t.

 

 

 

 

 

The door tears open on loose hinges with such _ferocity_ that neither of them can help the strangled decibels which burst from swollen lips. Michael emits one of those horrific, agonized little squeals which summons deep from within a butterfly-smothered abdomen.

A man charges forward on heavy footsteps. Dark-skinned and dark-lipped, his eyes blinking dizzily into the onyx shadows. He is a vision of padded jackets and golden emblems – shining a torch directly into tired eyes too petrified to part.

“Attention. This is Deputy Douglas with the New Jersey Police Department. Are either of you injured?”

A unison of shaking heads. Neither of them can will vocabulary into restless lungs. Their hands braided intimately against one and other for support and ultimate comfort in a world which seems so disgustingly bleak.

Deputy Douglas presses his lips together in a hardened line. “The suspect has been successfully apprehended. I repeat, the suspect has been apprehended. You folks are clear to come out.”

A tongue of silver and a heart of gold, summer-sprung clouds bursting from within, Michael cannot help the laughter of relief which bubbles from across vibrant lips. He clings to Rich – his lips sinking over dark skin.

But Rich does not mirror his ecstasy. At least not yet.

“Alive?”

Deputy Douglas raises an eyebrow, holding a hand out in order to help them rise to their feet. “Pardon me?”

“Is the shooter still alive?”

“I can neither confirm or deny at this time, sir. The suspect is on his way to the Infirmary as we speak. We will deal with him accordingly. Now, please, come with us.”

The walk from isolated classroom is devastatingly _slow_ , each movement dripping with a sense of dread. Their limbs are encased in gelatine as they trail over hallways which magnify an impending sense of terror; a lingering _horror_ which bleeds over sensitive nerves and blossoms into hearts fit to _cripple_. Every wall has been coated in crimson and scarlet – holes speckled amidst plaster and steel – an army of body bags trailing the exists. It’s devastation. It’s destruction. It’s d e a t h.

And all Rich can think about is the feeling of Michael’s hand in his own.

Wait until returns Jake hears about this.


End file.
